16. Trial of Creation
Trial of Creation
Ianthe & Skaros
They had not built the Kratos Circle for mercy.
The arena was designed to contain the brutal justice of the city, its upper tiers carved out of freezing black obsidian. I stood in the lowest ring, pressing my bare palms flat against the stone barricade, letting the biting cold anchor me. Above us, the open twilight stretched endlessly.
Hundreds of monsters filled the stone benches. Winged creatures perched along the highest ridges, and heavy-horned warriors sat shoulder to shoulder. Despite the sheer mass of bodies, the arena was absolutely quiet. The citizens of Asphodelia had gathered to witness a judgment.
“Aion will not hold back,” Medea murmured. She stood close to my left, her fingers twisting the dark fabric of her skirts as she watched the empty stage.
“Skaros wouldn’t want him to,” Theron said from my right. The black-furred Cerberus leaned his thickly muscled forearms against the stone, hellfire flickering faintly at the tips of his claws. “If Aion pulls his punches, the Moirae will call it a farce.”
The grating scrape of stone against stone echoed from the southern archway.
Aion stepped onto the obsidian stage. The colossus moved with a slow, deliberate grace, his living metallic frame catching the torchlight.
Thick veins of silver-blue energy pulsed steadily beneath his bronze skin.
He carried no weapons because he didn’t need any.
He was a living weapon himself, crafted by Charon’s masterful hands.
Aion walked to the center of the ring and waited. A moment later, a low vibration crawled up through the floor. Skaros stepped into the light.
A hot flush crept up my neck, and my hands clamped tighter around the barricade. Seeing him here, fully exposed beneath the unforgiving glare of the braziers, was entirely different from the dim quiet of his den.
He was a nightmare of muscle and fury. He stalked forward on four powerful, leonine legs, his massive, furred body rippling with tension.
His leathery wings rested tight against his flanks.
Behind him, his long tail swept across the slick floor, the venomous barb clicking against the rock with lethal intent.
To me, it had been beautiful, a part of him that was purely sensual and brought me pleasure. To Aion, it was a threat.
High above us, Phix rose on her carved outcropping. She had come to watch over her son’s challenge, but no longer as a mother. As the imperious sphinx Auctioneer.
Phix stepped to the edge of the stone, her ancient eyes sweeping over the quiet tiers.
“The ledger of Asphodelia is unbalanced,” she announced. “One of the Woven embraced death’s gift. His death-touched bride remained in Asphodelia, claimed by another. Yet now, the earth has surrendered our lost brother back to the waking world.”
The hundreds of predators surrounding us remained absolutely motionless.
“This is a Trial of Creation,” Phix continued, her tone carrying the heavy weight of Asphodelian law. “Blood and power must answer for the life he reclaimed. Thanatos requires absolute proof of his right to exist. Let the conflict begin.”
Aion moved first.
For a man forged entirely of metal, his speed was terrifying. He lunged across the center of the ring, his bronze fist swinging in a devastating arc.
Skaros anticipated the strike and launched himself upward. His massive leathery wings snapped open, catching the cold draft of the upper tiers. Aion’s fist struck empty space, colliding with the obsidian floor instead. The impact rang through the stone like a cracked bell.
“You’ve gotten slow, Aion,” Skaros drawled as he banked sharply in the open air.
“And you’re heavier,” Aion countered. “Your time away made you lazy.”
Skaros folded his wings and dropped from the sky, plummeting down to slam directly into the colossus’s broad shoulders. Heavy claws shrieked against living bronze, throwing a shower of bright sparks across the dark stage.
The two monsters grappled in the center of the ring, a terrifying collision of raw muscle and unyielding metal.
Aion lunged. His bronze fingers locked around Skaros’s foreleg like a vise.
Using the manticore’s sheer momentum against him, the colossus hoisted Skaros off the ground and hurled him across the expanse of the arena.
Skaros hit the stage but didn’t crash. He twisted mid-air with an effortless grace that defied his massive size.
All four of his paws found purchase on the slick obsidian, his claws carving deep gouges into the rock.
The agonizing shriek of tearing stone echoed through the cavern as he brought his momentum to a grinding halt.
With a deafening roar, he lashed out once more, his tail shooting forward, aiming for Aion.
The barbed tip struck the stage, missing Aion’s leg by a fraction of an inch. Where the venom splattered, the impenetrable black stone hissed, boiling instantly into jagged craters.
“Careful with the venom,” Aion warned, taking a step back from the melting rock. “Medea will not forgive you if you melt my legs.”
“Then stop moving like a target,” Skaros growled.
As he ducked beneath another sweeping blow, the sheer force of his wings displaced the air so violently it whipped my hair back against my face.
I couldn’t look away. This was the creature who had crept into my room in the dead of night.
This apex predator, capable of shattering living bronze and melting solid rock, was the same being who had shaped his terrible strength into smooth vines.
I stared at the devastating violence he unleashed on Aion and ached for him.
When he’d come to me, starving and desperate, he hadn’t taken.
He’d caged every instinct he possessed, waiting, asking for my permission to heal me.
His true savagery didn’t scare me. Instead, it reminded me of just how lucky I was.
It sent a fierce, possessive heat straight down to the marrow of my bones.
Aion abandoned his defense. The colossus dropped his shoulder and charged forward like a battering ram. Skaros refused to evade. He met his friend head-on.
The moment flesh struck metal, a deafening crack split the arena.
The cool, silver-blue death energy rolling off Skaros’s fur violently collided with the chaotic life-magic he had pulled from my veins.
The resulting shockwave blasted outward in a blinding flash.
It washed over the stands, stealing the breath right out of my lungs.
A thick cloud of pulverized stone and silver energy swallowed the stage. The arena plunged into a suffocating silence. I leaned over the barricade, my knuckles turning white against the freezing rock as I strained to pierce the haze.
Slowly, the dust began to clear.
Aion lay flat against the blistered obsidian.
His bronze chest was deeply scored, pulsing veins of silver-blue energy bleeding sluggishly into the cool air from the gouges.
Skaros stood directly over him, one heavy paw planted firmly on Aion’s shoulder.
His barbed tail hovered perfectly still, resting a hair’s breadth above the thickest energy vein on Aion’s throat.
Skaros’s sides heaved with the brutal exertion of the fight, but his amber eyes were perfectly clear.
Aion didn’t struggle against the pin. The colossus simply raised his massive fist and struck the black stone twice. The metallic ‘clang’ rang out through the breathless cavern, sharp and final.
“I yield,” Aion declared. His voice carried across the quiet tiers, steady and entirely devoid of anger. “The claim is broken.”
Beside me, Theron let out a long, ragged exhale that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for months. The Cerberus slapped his hand against the barricade in a silent celebration. Medea slumped forward, resting her forehead against her clasped hands.
Down on the ruined stage, Skaros stepped back.
He lowered his tail, the venomous barb tucking safely out of sight.
He waited in silence as Aion pushed himself up from the floor.
The two monsters locked eyes and exchanged a single nod.
The brutal violence had served its purpose. The duel had reached its end.
Then, the air in the Kratos Circle turned instantly to ice. Three figures stepped out from the deep shadows cast by the braziers. The Moirae.
A ripple of profound stillness swept through the tiers as hundreds of predators simultaneously lowered their heads in deference. Beside me, Phix bowed deeply over her outcropping. I followed her example but kept my eyes locked entirely on the three rulers of Asphodelia.
Lachesis glided forward, her dark robes trailing over the scorch marks.
She held a long bronze measuring rod in her hands.
She stopped in front of Skaros, tilting her head as her ancient eyes mapped the heavy muscle of his chest, the span of his wings, and the lingering, chaotic pulse of life-magic still humming in his veins.
“The thread we wove together so many cycles ago was severed,” Lachesis announced. She didn’t shout, yet her voice resonated in the very foundations of the city. “As per Thanatos’s dictates, Skaros the manticore unraveled into death energy.”
She raised the bronze rod, pointing it directly at Skaros’s chest.
“The creature standing before us is woven anew,” she continued. “Forged from the chaotic sickness of Korinos, and tempered by the deep currents of the Acheron. A creation of balance.”
Atropos moved up beside her sister. The eldest Moira rested a withered hand on the iron shears tucked into her belt. “The taboo is satisfied. You did not reverse your death, manticore. You evolved.”
Clotho stepped to his other side. The youngest sister smiled, her eyes crinkling with a warmth that felt terrifyingly out of place in the City of the Dead. “The bond you forged is absolute. You and your bride belong to Asphodelia.”